


Hands On (A Miracle)

by luninosity



Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, First Meetings, M/M, Missing Scene, Ocean, Protective!Erik, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-10-12
Updated: 2012-10-12
Packaged: 2017-11-16 04:19:16
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,478
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/535416
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luninosity/pseuds/luninosity
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Written for a request involving <i>Erik/Charles, huddling for warmth/survival leading to *feelings*.</i> I'm not sure why my brain decided to set this so early (and I really REALLY wanted to subtitle it "They're On A Boat"), but I feel that this is an entirely valid missing scene, after Charles pulls Erik out of the water.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Hands On (A Miracle)

**Author's Note:**

> Title and opening lines from “Miracle,” by, as always, the Foo Fighters.

  
_everything that we survived, it’s gonna be all right_   
_just lucky we’re alive_   
_got no vision, I’ve been blind, searching every way_   
_you’re right here in my sights_   


   
The boat, around them, creaked with cold, metal under stress. Erik could sympathize; he was feeling somewhat under stress himself, at the moment.  
   
He and the other man—Charles—perched on opposite ends of their shared bench, and eyed each other, wrapped in individual blankets like armor, against the cold, against the rest of the world.  
   
He watched Charles shivering over there, blinking needles of icy water out of shockingly blue eyes, and wondered, suddenly, what had just happened. How had he ended up here, on a boat belonging to the CIA, of all things, with a blue-eyed man determined to rescue him, beneath the chilly gaze of the uninterested night? He’d been ready to die.  
   
He hadn’t wanted to, of course—he’d've died without being certain of the success of his revenge—but he wouldn’t have minded. Because it would have been in the service of that revenge.  
   
And then this man, Charles Xavier, had thrown himself into a freezing ocean and had pulled Erik back up with him, back to the surface. And Erik had let himself be rescued, for reasons he could not begin to comprehend.  
   
“Why did you save me?” he asked, after the silence stretched out just a little too long.  
   
Charles looked up, those astonishing eyes bright with surprise, and, beneath that, something that wasn’t surprise at all, almost expectation. As if he’d just been waiting for Erik to inquire. “Because you’re worth saving.”  
   
Erik almost laughed at that—who said things like that, really, ever?—but he looked at Charles’s expression, and realized, amazed, that Charles Xavier _was_ the sort of person who said things like that, and, moreover, clearly, sincerely, meant them.  
   
“You don’t even know me.”  
   
“Yes, I do.” Charles was still shivering under his blanket, and the words came out a little shaky; as if he were worried that Erik might not have heard them, he said it all again, not out loud _. I do know you, my friend. And you are worth saving._  
   
Erik stared at him.  
   
Charles, dripping ocean water from practically everywhere—no one on board had had spare clothes that fit him, and the blanket was proving entirely inadequate—offered, _I’m sorry, are you all right?_  
   
Suddenly he wasn’t sure. _All right_ had abruptly become a much more complicated concept, involving someone else’s voice in his head and the worryingly natural feeling of Charles’s presence and his own refusal to show weakness combined with the nagging sensation that Charles knew all his weaknesses anyway.  
   
The creeping drops of ocean beaded up and plopped off of his wetsuit, to the damp deck below. At least he could inhale again without coughing up salt. Funny how he’d never really appreciated the ability to breathe before.  
   
And he was breathing, at the moment, because of Charles Xavier.  
   
“Sorry about that.”  
   
“…what?”  
   
“I meant sorry I couldn’t find you sooner. I could feel—your lungs still hurt, you know.”  
   
He did know. Apparently Charles did, too. The waves crashed noisily against the side of the ship, into the pause.  
   
“Also sorry about startling you.” _You have your ability; I have mine. That’s how I found you_.  
   
“Telepathy?’  
   
“More or less…” The cold was crawling its way into Erik’s bones, jagged pointy teeth like angry icicles, and he suddenly realized that the sensations weren’t all his.  
   
Of course they weren’t. He had a wetsuit on and had been prepared for the worst and Charles had jumped in after him wearing civilian clothes and had lost both shoes somewhere and had probably never endured survival training in his life. And Charles could project thoughts into his mind.  
   
He could _feel_ Charles trembling, and Erik, before he could even stop to think about it, slid along the bench and put an arm around him, trying to provide some measure of extra warmth. Charles smiled, and said _Thank you_ , and leaned against him.  
   
“Does that help?”  
   
“A bit.” _You’re not very warm, either. I could—_  
   
“Here.” He put the other arm around Charles, too, not caring if it might look odd to the CIA observers, and tugged the blanket up over salt-sticky hair. “Stay under that. Most body heat gets lost through the head.” _Also, I am sorry that you are cold because of me._  
   
He tried to frame each word carefully, not sure how precise thoughts needed to be for Charles to pick up on them. Telepathy. He’d thought it would be strange, sharing his mind with someone else. And it was.  
   
But it also felt somehow…comfortable. As if he’d known this man forever. As if he _wanted_ to know Charles, forever.  
   
 _You can. If you’d like that; I would, I think. And you needn’t apologize; I was the one who dove in after you, after all_.  
   
“And I do know that, about the body heat, I mean. Though it’s a little hard to hold on to a blanket when one has no fingers left to speak of.” Charles settled into Erik’s arms as if he belonged there, while Erik was still reeling from the certainty with which those first words had just turned up in his head.  
   
Charles looked at him thoughtfully, and added, _I was going to say, I think I might be able to help with you feeling cold, at least. Can I try something?_  
   
 _Yes_. He heard himself give that immediate answer with some shock. He’d spent his life not trusting anyone; trust was a luxury he could not afford, and did not expect in return.  
   
But he found himself trusting Charles, unquestioningly, instinctively. He wanted to be horrified by that. He tried to be. But he _knew_ , beyond a shadow of a doubt, that Charles would never knowingly hurt him.  
   
 _Of course I wouldn’t. And you wouldn’t hurt me. Let me see…_  
   
Abruptly, his entire body felt warmer. The icy residue of black seadepths stopped clinging to his skin, and vanished.  
   
 _Better?_  
   
 _That’s…impressive. How did you do that?_  
   
 _Oh…I told your mind that it was receiving certain, slightly modified, sensory input. Made you think you weren’t experiencing cold. It isn’t real, of course—and if this were a survival situation it could be a bit dangerous—but it’ll help for now._ Charles grinned at him. The blue eyes, sparkling like happy stars against pale skin, danced with satisfaction, under the grey military-issue blanket.  
   
Erik smiled back, because he couldn’t help it, and thought, for a second, about how casually Charles had done that to him, how powerful Charles really might be.  
   
And then Charles shivered again, hair falling into those eyes, and not looking very powerful at all, wrapped up in Erik’s arms and his insufficient blanket.  
   
“Can’t you—what you just did for me—you can’t do that for yourself?”  
   
“Sadly, no...” _I always know it’s my own suggestion, you see. I can never quite make myself believe it. Sorry._  
   
And so Erik learned something else about Charles Xavier: Charles was also the sort of person who, even when half-frozen himself and unable to fix it, would try to help someone else. And then apologize for not being able to do everything.  
   
Charles was still shaking, fingers still like icicles to Erik’s exploratory touch, and, suddenly, Erik wanted to help him. Wanted to make Charles feel warm, feel better, feel safe. Because Charles had done all that, in the space of a few minutes, for him. Amazing.  
   
“I’ll be fine, I promise…”  
   
“You can barely talk.” Another amusing fact: Charles, even when his teeth were chattering, would still try.  
   
Charles tried to say something else out loud, and gave up. _All right, yes, fair enough. Are you still all right?_  
   
 _Fine. Just worried about you._ That was a new sensation, too. He couldn’t remember the last time someone else’s welfare had mattered so much, to him. Certainly never so quickly. But it wasn’t really quick, he thought. They’d known each other for minutes, and those minutes felt like a lifetime.  
   
The lights along the shoreline, approaching in the distance, twinkled at him approvingly, at that.  
   
He caught himself wondering why it had taken him so long to close the distance between them, on the hard bench, and put his arms around Charles. Because that was just where they belonged. And he knew that Charles didn’t mind.  
   
Perhaps the CIA wouldn’t care if he carried Charles off to the nearest hotel and put him in the shower, beneath hot water, and kept him there until all that icy skin had warmed up again. Perhaps he didn’t give a damn whether or not the CIA cared.  
   
 _Erik, really._  
   
 _Really what? You saved my life. I think I’m allowed to rescue you this time._  
   
 _I’m hardly in need of—_  
   
 _Yes you are,_ Erik said, firmly, and heard the exact second that Charles started laughing in their heads, realizing what he was thinking, and deciding to play along.  
   
 _All right. Hotel?_  
   
 _Hotel. Shower. You._ Erik glanced around, spotted the closest CIA agent, and glared at his back until the man turned to look.  
   
Before the agent could ask what they wanted, Erik demanded, “How close are we to land?” and tried to ignore Charles’s amusement at the preemptory tone.  
   
“Ten minutes, maybe. We’ll need you and Professor Xavier to come in for debriefing—”  
   
“No.”  
   
“What?”  
   
“No. Have you looked at him? He’s practically freezing. Because you let him dive into the ocean alone, without a wetsuit or proper training—”  
   
In helpful corroboration, Charles assumed a pitiful look, under the blanket. This was actually extremely effective, because he was still shivering and damp hair was curling into his eyes, and Erik suspected that not all of that was Charles putting on a performance.  
   
“—and you have entirely insufficient survival equipment on this boat, and I do not trust you to take care of him.”  
   
“But we were told—”  
   
“I don’t care what you were told. I am taking him somewhere warm. Your debriefing can wait until morning.”  
   
 _Impressively forceful of you._  
   
 _Thank you._  
   
The agent looked from Erik to Charles—who shivered pathetically and offered, “I admit I would like to go somewhere warm, and I promise neither of us have plans to run off during the night” —and sighed.  
   
“I’ll need to make a phone call. Professor, if it’s that bad, we could call the paramedics for you—”  
   
“Oh, no, it’s not that bad. Thank you, though. I appreciate the concern. But we’ll manage.”  
   
“You want us to leave you alone with him?”  
   
“Yes, please. Don’t worry; we’ll be all right.” And Charles must have done something else, Erik thought, because the man nodded, lines of suspicion easing too quickly to be natural, and moved away, beckoning over another agent and embarking on explanations.  
   
 _Did you—?_  
   
 _Only a little. He wanted to believe me, anyway. He doesn’t trust you, but he likes me, and you made him feel guilty with the survival equipment remark_. Charles stopped, shivered again, shut his eyes. _Do you think there might be extra blankets?_  
   
“Are you sure you’re all right?”  
   
“Fine, fine…” _Might lose a few fingers along the way, though._  
   
 _What? Let me see!_  
   
 _Sorry, sorry! Joke. Mostly._ But Charles let Erik reach for and hold onto his hands anyway. He had elegant hands, soft-skinned and graceful, the hands of an academic, but surprisingly strong, too. Or they would have been, if they hadn’t been shaking.  
   
 _I meant it about keeping you in the shower._  
   
 _Hmm…are you joining me?_  
   
 _Do you want me to?_  
   
 _Yes._ No hesitation at all. Erik would’ve found that surprising—how many other people, how many other men, would have admitted to that so easily, so unembarrassedly?—but he could hear that Charles meant it, that Charles could feel Erik wanting that too, and so even this was no secret between them.  
   
For some reason that thought made the air and the distant city lights and the cold bench beneath them feel warmer, just a little.  
   
 _I should probably tell you, though…I never have actually, er, done what you’re thinking now. With a man, that is._  
   
At which Erik just stared at him, because how could Charles be so confident about this if—  
   
 _Well, I know you have. And you know I want to._ Charles actually managed a grin, despite the cold. _We’ll figure it out._  
   
He had, yes—and he wasn’t surprised that Charles knew that, either—but those had been quick moments, one-night stands, paid companionship, and not too many of those, either. He’d never wanted commitments. Had never wanted to care.  
   
Except with Charles, suddenly, he did care. Wanted everything to be good. Perfect, even. Because Charles believed that Erik wouldn’t hurt him, and Erik knew that that wasn’t true, he knew what he was capable of, but Charles knew every last detail of all that too and _still_ believed he could be a good person, and Erik somehow just couldn’t disappoint him. Couldn’t betray all that faith.  
   
Faith. In him. Incredible.  
   
Charles was still grinning at him, through the brittle bite of the icy air, and Erik found himself grinning back, just because.  
   
 _I heard that. You care about me._  
   
 _Eavesdropping, are you?_  
   
 _Mmm-hmm. I care about you, too. I’m glad I dove in after you, you know._ And Charles meant that, Erik could hear the truth behind it, all the emotions he didn’t have a name for yet but that ebbed and flowed and echoed between them, reassuring and comfortable as the tide. He knew it the way that he was starting to know Charles, one more little sparkling detail offered up as part of the foundation of the two of them together. Like the way he knew, without asking, that Charles loathed strawberries but adored pineapple and loved the electric crackle of thunderstorms overhead, brilliant and wild and alive.  
   
He wanted to know more. And he wanted Charles to know him, too, even though Charles already did, had seen the highlighted and vivid flashes of Erik’s life in a touch, a thought, a heartbeat. But he wanted to offer all those pieces of himself again, this time. Freely. Because Charles would accept them.  
   
 _I’m glad you did, too. And I’m still sorry you’re cold because of me. I can—I’ll try to keep you warm forever, after this, if you’ll let me._ He would. He would learn to like pineapple and how to sleep in the same bed with another person all night without murdering them in cold blood and he would make sure that Charles never felt cold, ever again, if Charles wanted that.  
   
And Charles leaned forward, under the blanket, and kissed him with lips that tasted like cold night air and saltwater and laughter, and said _Yes_.


End file.
